by Sarah Lark
“There were birds,” Gerald Warden reported. “Big, small, fat, thin, flying, walking…oh yes, and a few bats. Besides that, insects of course, but they’re not very dangerous either. You’d have to work hard if you wanted to be killed on New Zealand, sir. Unless you resort to dealing with bipedal robbers with firearms.”
“Presumably those with machetes, daggers, and krises too, eh?” Riddleworth asked with a chuckle. “Well, it’s a puzzle to me how one could volunteer to live in such a wilderness. I was happy to leave the colonies.”
“Our Maori are mostly peaceful,” Warden said calmly. “A strange people…at once fatalistic and easy to please. They sing, dance, carve wood, and don’t know how to make any weapons worthy of mention. No, sir, I’m sure you would have been rather more bored than afraid.”
Jeffrey Riddleworth wanted to correct him that he hadn’t lost a single drop of sweat to fear during his entire time in India. But the gentlemen were interrupted by Gwyneira’s arrival. The girl entered the salon—and looked around, clearly confused, when she saw that her mother and sister were not among those present.
“Am I early?” Gwyneira asked, instead of first properly greeting her brother-in-law.
Jeffrey looked suitably offended, but Gerald Warden could not take his eyes off her. The girl had struck him as pretty earlier, but now, in formal attire, he recognized her as a true beauty. Her blue velvet dress highlighted her pale skin and her vibrant red hair. Her more chaste hairstyle emphasized the noble cut of her face. Completing the effect were her bold lips and luminous blue eyes, which sparkled with a lively, almost provocative expression. Gerald was enraptured.
It was clear that this girl didn’t fit here. He couldn’t possibly picture her at the side of a man like Jeffrey Riddleworth. Gwyneira was more likely to wear a snake around her neck and tame tigers.
“No, no, dear, you are punctual,” her father said, glancing at the clock. “Your mother and sister are late. Likely they were once more too long in the garden.”
“Were you not in the garden, then?” Gerald Warden asked, turning to Gwyneira. Really he would have expected her to be out in the fresh air more than her mother, whom he had met earlier and considered rather dull and prim.
Gwyneira shrugged. “I don’t know much about roses,” she admitted, though in doing so she incurred Jeffrey’s displeasure once more and surely that of her father as well. “Now, if there were vegetables or something else that didn’t prick…”
Gerald Warden laughed, ignoring the other men’s acerbic countenances. The sheep baron found the girl enchanting. Of course, she wasn’t the first girl he’d eyed surreptitiously on his trip through the old homeland, but so far none of the other young English ladies had opened themselves up so naturally and willingly.
“Now, now, my lady,” he teased her. “Do you really mean to confront me with the dark side of the English rose? Does the milk-white skin and copper hair hide only thorns?”
The term “English rose” for the light-skinned, red-haired girls common to the British Isles was also known in New Zealand.
Normally Gwyneira would have blushed, but she only smiled. “It’s safer to wear gloves,” she remarked, seeing her mother gasping for air out of the corner of her eye.
Lady Silkham and her oldest daughter, Lady Riddleworth, had just entered and overheard Gerald and Gwyneira’s short exchange. They didn’t know whether they were more shocked by their guest’s lack of shame or Gwyneira’s quick-witted riposte.
“Mr. Warden, my daughter Diana, Lady Riddleworth.” Lady Silkham decided in the end to ignore the matter entirely. The man obviously did not possess any social grace, but he had agreed to pay her husband a small fortune for a flock of sheep and a litter of puppies. That would ensure Gwyneira’s dowry—and give Lady Silkham just enough leverage to marry the girl off quickly, before word of her sharp tongue got out.
Diana greeted the overseas visitor grandly. She had been assigned to Gerald Warden as a dining partner, for which she was soon sorry. Dinner with the Riddleworths dragged on, and was beyond dull. While Gerald expressed pleasantries and pretended to listen to Diana’s explanations about growing roses and garden exhibitions, he kept an eye on Gwyneira. Aside from her loose manner of speech, her behavior was impeccable. She knew how to behave in society and chatted with her dining partner, Jeffrey, politely, even if she was obviously bored. She dutifully answered her sister’s questions about her progress in French conversation and dear Madame Fabian’s health, who deeply regretted having to miss the evening meal due to illness. Otherwise, she would have all too gladly spoken with her favorite former pupil, Diana.
Only when dessert was being served did Jeffrey Riddleworth return to his question from earlier. Apparently, the table talk had even gotten on his nerves. Diana and her mother had transitioned to chattering about shared acquaintances, discussing which ones they found completely “charming” and which had “well-off” sons, whom they evidently considered potential matches for Gwyneira.
“You’ve yet to tell us how the winds blew you ashore overseas, Mr. Warden. Did you go on business of the Crown? Or perhaps in pursuit of the legendary Captain Hobson?”
Gerald Warden shook his head, smiling, and let the servant refill his wineglass. Until that moment, he had only drunk a modest quantity of the excellent vintage. He knew that later there would be plenty of his host’s excellent scotch, and if he wanted to have even the slightest chance of pulling off his plan, he needed a clear head. An empty glass, however, would raise suspicion. So he nodded to the servant, but reached for his water glass.
“I sailed out a full twenty years before Hobson,” he answered. “At a time when things were still a bit rougher on the islands. Especially in the whaling stations and with the seal hunters.”
“But aren’t you a sheep grazier?” Gwyneira chimed in keenly. Finally an interesting topic! “You didn’t really hunt whales, did you?”
Gerald laughed grimly. “Did I ever hunt whales, my lady. Three years on the Molly Malone…”
He did not want to say more, but Terence Silkham now knit his brow.
“Oh, come now, Warden, you know too much about sheep for me to buy these pirate stories. You certainly didn’t learn all that on a whaling ship!”
“Of course not,” Gerald answered calmly. The flattery did not faze him. “In fact, I come from the Yorkshire Dales; my father was a shepherd.”
“But you sought adventure!” That was Gwyneira. Her eyes flashed with excitement. “You set out on a dark and stormy night, leaving land behind and…”
Gerald was amused and inspired at once. This girl was without a doubt the one, even if she was spoiled and had a completely unrealistic understanding of the world.
“I was, you see, the tenth of eleven children,” he explained. “And I didn’t like the idea of earning my living watching other people’s sheep. My father wanted me to take up the trade at thirteen. But I hired on a ship instead. Saw half the world. The coasts of Africa, America, the Cape…we sailed as far as the Arctic. And finally to New Zealand. And I liked it there best. No tigers, no snakes…” He winked at Jeffrey Riddleworth. “The land still unexplored to a large extent and a climate like the homeland. In the end one just seeks out his roots.”
“And then you hunted whales and seals?” Gwyneira asked again, incredulously. “You didn’t start right off with sheep?”
“Sheep don’t come free, little lady,” Gerald Warden said, smiling. “As I got to learn anew today. In order to purchase your father’s flock, you’d have to kill more than just one whale. And though the land was cheap, the Maori chiefs don’t exactly give it away for free.”
“The Maori are the natives, right?” Gwyneira asked with evident curiosity.
Gerald Warden nodded. “It means something like ‘moa hunter.’ The moas were giant birds, but apparently the hunters were too zealous and the beasts have all died out. Incidentally, we immigrants are also named after birds. We call ourselves ‘kiwis,’ which is a curious, stubborn, and vivacious bir
d. You can’t escape a kiwi. They’re everywhere in New Zealand. Don’t ask me who came up with the idea to label us kiwis, of all things.”
Only a few members of the dining party laughed, mostly Terence Silkham and Gwyneira. Lady Silkham and the Riddleworths were indignant that they were dining with a former shepherd boy and whaler, even if he had since acquired the title of sheep baron.
Lady Silkham soon brought the meal to a close and retired to the salon with her daughters. Gwyneira only reluctantly quit the gentlemen’s circle. Finally the conversation had turned to more interesting subjects than Diana’s unspeakably boring roses and endlessly dull society. She longed to return to her room, where In the Hands of the Redskins awaited her, half-read. The Indians had just abducted the daughter of a cavalry officer. However, Gwyneira still had at least two cups of tea in her female family’s company ahead of her. Sighing, she resigned herself to her fate.
Meanwhile, Terence Silkham offered cigars to the men in the study. Gerald Warden’s connoisseurship in selecting the best variety of Cubans impressed him. Jeffrey Riddleworth simply reached into the case and picked one at random. Then they spent an endless half hour discussing the queen’s latest decision regarding British agriculture. Both Terence and Jeffrey thought it regrettable that the queen clearly sided with industrialization and trade over strengthening traditional industry. Gerald Warden said little on the topic. He didn’t know much about it, and he didn’t really care. However, the New Zealander perked back up when Riddleworth cast a regretful glance at the chessboard that waited, set up, on a little table nearby.
“It’s a shame that we won’t get to our game today, but we wouldn’t want to bore our guest,” he remarked.
Gerald Warden caught the undertones. If he were a true gentleman, Jeffrey wanted to imply, he would make up some reason to retire to his rooms. But Gerald was no gentleman. He had played that role well enough until now; it was now time to get down to his real business.
“Why don’t we play a little card game instead?” he suggested with an innocent smile. “One plays blackjack even in the salons in the colonies, eh Riddleworth? Or would you prefer a different game? Poker, perhaps?”
Jeffrey Riddleworth looked at him with disgust. “I beg your pardon! Blackjack…poker…one might play such games in port town pubs but certainly not among gentlemen.”
“Well, I’ll gladly play a hand,” Terence declared, glancing eagerly at the card table. He did not seem to be taking up Gerald’s offer simply to be polite. “During my time in the military, I played often, but here we hardly ever do anything on social occasions other than talk shop about sheep and horses. Hop to it, Jeffrey! You can deal first. And don’t be stingy. I know you make a fine salary. Let’s see if I can’t win back some of Diana’s dowry.”
Terence Silkham spoke bluntly. During dinner he had partaken heavily of the wine, and upon entering the salon had tossed back his first scotch quickly. Now he gestured eagerly for the other men to take their places. Gerald Warden sat down happily, while Jeffrey did so reluctantly. He reached for the cards against his will and shuffled clumsily.
Gerald set his glass aside. He had to be alert now. He noted with pleasure that the tipsy Terence opened with a high ante. Gerald readily let him win. A half hour later, a small fortune in coins and notes lay before Terence and Jeffrey. The latter had thawed somewhat, even if he still did not appear entirely enthusiastic. Silkham helped himself to more whiskey.
“Don’t lose the money for my sheep,” he warned Gerald. “You’ve already played away another litter of pups.”
Gerald Warden smiled. “Who doesn’t dare, doesn’t win,” he said and upped the ante again. “How is it, Riddleworth, going to call?”
The colonel was no longer sober either, but he was mistrustful by nature. Gerald Warden knew that he’d have to get rid of him—while losing as little money as possible in the process. When Jeffrey went all in, Gerald struck.
“Blackjack, my friend,” he said almost regretfully as he laid his ace on the table. “My unlucky streak had to end sometime. Another hand! Come, Riddleworth, win your money back double.”
Jeffrey stood up peevishly. “No, deal me out. I should have quit sooner. Oh well, easy come, easy go. I’m not putting any more money in your pockets tonight. And you should quit too, Father. Then you’ll at least come out ahead.”
“You sound like my wife,” Terence remarked, though his voice sounded a little unsure. “And what do you mean ‘come out ahead’? I didn’t call last time. I still have all my money. And my luck’s holding! Today’s my lucky day anyway, eh, Warden? Today I’m really lucky.”
“Then I hope you keep having fun,” Jeffrey said icily.
Gerald Warden breathed a sigh of relief as Jeffrey left the room. Now the coast was clear.
“Then let’s double your winnings, Silkham,” he encouraged the lord. “How much is that now? Fifteen thousand altogether? Lord almighty, so far you’ve lightened my wallet by more than ten thousand pounds. Double that and you’ll have as much as you got for the sheep!”
“But…but if I lose, then it’s all gone.” The lord was now having misgivings.
Gerald Warden shrugged. “That’s the risk. But we can keep it small. Look, I’ll deal you a card and myself one as well. Peek at it. I’ll uncover mine—and then you can decide. If you want to play, all the better. I can, of course, also decline after I’ve seen my first card.” He smiled.
The lord received the card doubtfully. Didn’t this peek go against the rules? A gentleman should never look for loopholes or shy away from risks. Nevertheless, he stole a look at his card.
A ten! Except for an ace, it couldn’t have been better.
Gerald, who kept the pot, revealed his card. A queen. That counted for ten points. Not a bad start. Still the New Zealander wrinkled his brow and seemed doubtful.
“My luck doesn’t seem to be holding,” he sighed. “And how about you? Shall we play, or leave it be?”
The lord was suddenly very eager to continue.
“I’d gladly take another card,” he declared.
Gerald Warden looked at his queen with resignation. He seemed to be wrestling with himself, but dealt another card anyway.
The eight of spades. Eighteen points total. Would that be enough? Silkham broke out in a sweat. But if he took another card, he was in danger of going bust. Better to bluff. The lord attempted a poker face.
“Ready when you are,” he declared curtly.
Gerald revealed another card. A two. So far twelve points. The New Zealander reached for the cards again.
Terence Silkham prayed for an ace. Then Gerald would go bust. But still, his own chances weren’t bad. Only an eight or a ten could save the sheep baron.
Gerald drew—a three.
He let his breath out sharply.
“If only I were clairvoyant…” he sighed. “But, no matter, I don’t imagine you have any less than fifteen. So I’ll risk it.”
The lord trembled as Gerald drew his fourth card. The danger of going bust was huge. But it was the four of hearts.
“Nineteen,” Gerald counted. “And I’ll stay. Cards on the table, my lord!”
Terence revealed his bluff. He had lost by one point. And he had been so close!
Gerald Warden seemed to see it the same way. “By a hair, my lord, by a hair. That cries for revenge. I know I sound crazy, but we can’t let that stand. Another hand.”
Terence shook his head. “I don’t have any more money. That wasn’t just my winnings, that was everything I had to bet. If I lose any more, I’ll be in serious trouble. It’s out of the question; I’m out.”
“But I beg you, my lord!” Gerald shuffled the cards. “It just starts getting fun with high stakes. As for a bet…wait, let’s play for the sheep. Yes, the sheep you wanted to sell me. That way, even if things go badly, you won’t lose anything. After all, if I hadn’t suddenly shown up to purchase the sheep, you wouldn’t have had the money in the first place.” Gerald Warden flashed hi
s winning smile and let the cards pass nimbly between his hands.
The lord emptied his glass and prepared to stand. He swayed a little as he did so, but he still articulated his words clearly: “That would suit you, Warden! Twenty of this island’s best breeding sheep for a few card tricks? No, I’m done. I’ve lost enough. Maybe such games are common in the wilderness you come from, but here we keep a cool head.”
Gerald Warden raised the whiskey bottle and filled the glasses once more.
“I would have taken you for a braver man,” he said regretfully. “Or better said, for a more daring one. But maybe that’s typical of us kiwis—in New Zealand, you are only considered a man if you dare to take a few risks.”
Terence Silkham frowned. “You can hardly accuse the Silkhams of cowardice. We have always fought bravely, served the Crown, and…” The lord found it visibly difficult to find the right words and stand at the same time. He let himself sink down once more into his chair. But he wasn’t drunk yet. He could still ante up to this rogue.
Gerald Warden laughed. “In New Zealand we serve the Crown too. The colony is developing into an important economic engine. In the long run we’ll pay England back everything the Crown has invested in us. The queen is braver than you on that count, my lord. She’s playing her game, and she’s winning. Come, Silkham! You don’t want to give up now, do you? A few good cards, and you’ll have been paid twice for the sheep.”
With those words he threw two cards facedown on the table. The lord could not have said why he reached for them. The risk was too great, but the prize was tempting. If he won, not only was Gwyneira’s dowry secure, but it would also be large enough to please even the best families in the region. As he slowly picked up the cards, he saw his daughter as a baroness…who knew, maybe even a lady-in-waiting to the queen…
A ten of diamonds. That was good. Now if the other one…Silkham’s heart began to beat loudly when he uncovered a ten of spades. Twenty points. That was hard to beat.
He looked at Gerald triumphantly.
Gerald Warden took his first card from the deck. Ace of spades. Terence groaned. But it didn’t mean anything. The next card could be a two or three, and then the chances were good that Gerald would bust.
